Holy Night
by pepperlandgirl
Summary: Sequel to "Silent Night" THeir first night together. BS


**Title**: Holy Night

**Rating: **R

**Pairing: **B/S

**Summary:** Sequel to **Silent Night**. Buffy and Spike spend Christmas night together—their first night together since Spike's return. 

**Distribution**: Let me know. 

They drove half-way to Vegas without a sound. Spike didn't bother turning on the radio. Buffy didn't know what to say to him. Spike didn't know what to say to her. But it was so simple to be with her again. So right. So comforting. He couldn't explain it, he wouldn't even know how to start.

The silence lingered in the confusion, the discomfort, the relief, and the excitement. Occasionally she would reach over and touch his hand, his arm, his shoulder, or brush a bit of hair behind his ear. Every time she did, she swallowed hard, keeping her words and feelings bottled up. On a particularly long, straight patch of the freeway, he reached over and rested his hand on her knee. She didn't push him away, though she tensed beneath his touch. He didn't leave it there long. 

Finally, about twenty miles outside of Vegas, Buffy spoke. "I was on my way to L.A." 

"Yeah?"

"There's a few slayers there we missed before. And I needed to see Angel." 

"Of course." Spike regretted the bitter edge in his voice, but it was too late to take it back now.

Buffy sighed. "Giles had some things he wants Wes to look at." 

"Then why…" 

"I never, ever even dreamed I'd see you again, Spike." To demonstrate, she touched him again. Spike wished she wouldn't pull her hand away, but she did. 

"Yeah well, it came as a surprise to me too." 

"Why didn't you call?" 

She didn't sound like Buffy. Her voice was too soft, too hesitant. There was no indication of the fearless woman who led those girls into battle. General Buffy was gone. Spike hadn't heard that voice, that tone, since before the goddamned song and dance demon. 

"Angel said he didn't know where you were," Spike answered lamely. When in doubt, blame the poof. The excuse rang hollow to both of them. 

"I see." 

"Buffy…" 

Silence again. Spike took a deep breath and tried to explain the half-thoughts and vague feelings. Like he could make some sort of sense from the jumble. "I didn't think you'd want to hear from me." 

Buffy opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Why…?" 

Spike blinked. Good question. "I didn't know…" He fumbled for words. Be a ghost tied to Angel, being sucked into hell, suddenly receiving his body and a possible prophecy, the ability to watch the sun rise from the safety of Angel's office, listening to Fred ramble and Wes mutter about the latest catastrophe and Lorne sing… "I lost track." 

"Lost track of what?"

"Everything." 

"How long have you been…back?" 

Spike shrugged. "A few months." 

"A few _months?_ You were never going to call." 

"Well…why should I?" Spike asked, suddenly defensive. "Whatever we had…whatever it was…it's buried with the rest of Sunnydale." 

"How…why would you say that?" 

"It's the truth, isn't it?" 

Buffy turned her head and looked away from him. "I thought it was just something you said…I didn't think you meant it. I spent the last six months pretending you didn't mean it." 

Spike frowned and searched the memory of those final, blurry days. What had he said to her? "I don't know what you're talking about," he finally said. 

She sniffed. "Yes you do, Spike." 

Spike eased his foot off the accelerator. He couldn't have this conversation and concentrate on driving at the same time. She sounded…she sounded as miserable as the night when she had been kicked out of her own house. He pushed that thought away quickly—the memory still enraged him. 

"Buffy, I really don't know what you're talking about." 

"Can you…pull over?"

"We'll be in Vegas soon," Spike offered. "I'll stop there." 

"Well, you were wrong."

"I often am." 

"Because," she continued, as though she didn't hear him. "I do love you." 

Spike slammed the break, and the Viper skidded to a halt. They were both jerked forward, and Buffy hit her knee on the dashboard. 

"Ok. Ow." 

"What did you say?" 

She pulled her pants up and looked at the red mark on her sore knee. "It won't bruise," she muttered with satisfaction. 

"Buffy, what did you say?" 

"How many times do I have to say it?" 

"I don't know. How many times have you said it?" 

"Twice." 

Spike started forward again. He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the wheel. Twice? _Twice_? 

"I need to find a place to stop," Spike finally said. 

The silence stretched another ten miles. Spike decided he didn't want to talk until he could give her his full attention. Because obviously he was missing something very, very big here. 

The first place they found was a Best Western with a neon green sign that assured potential customers there was, indeed, room for them. Spike pulled into the parking lot before asking Buffy if it was ok. 

"I don't have my card on me." 

Spike shrugged. "No problem. I have Angel's." 

"You stole his credit card?" She didn't sound annoyed, just curious. 

"It's more of a company account card." 

"You work for him." 

Spike snorted. "No. Ok, I'll dash in and you park. And don't scratch…" Spike paused. "Hell, it's not my car. Do whatever you want to it." 

He pulled his duster over his head and ran into the lobby of the hotel. Smoke started to rise from his hair, but he put that out without any trouble. He straightened his coat and ignored everybody's stare. 

"Need a room, mate." He took out the credit card and slammed it onto the counter. 

"I'll need to see some ID," the girl said. Spike hated to do it. The girl—Lizzy—looked nice enough. But he didn't have an ID so…

Spike's eyes turned yellow. "I don't have any on me." 

"Oh…oh…well…that's fine. Here…just let me see what we have available. Do you have any preference?" 

His eyes resumed the normal blue hue and he smiled charmingly. "We'll take what you got." 

"There's a King…but it's a smoking room." 

"Perfect." 

Buffy walked into the lobby just as Spike received the key and room number. He ushered her into the elevator and up to the top floor. They stood as close to each other as they could, though they weren't quite touching. 

"What room?"

"519." 

She took the key from him and walked ahead of him. "I'll make sure the curtains are closed." 

Seconds later she opened the door for him, and he stepped into the warm, dark room. _Well_, Spike thought, _now what?_

Buffy sat on the edge of the bed and he leaned against the door, trying to look casual, but in reality, he looked tense and ready for flight. 

"Twice?" He finally said. 

"I told you…I told you before I ran out of the Hellmouth." 

Spike was almost afraid to ask. "What did I say?" 

"You don't remember?" 

Spike shook his head. "I remember the pain. I remember telling you to run. Everything else after Willow's spell…" Spike shrugged. "Just pain and blinding light. And then…" 

"And then what?"

"And then I was in Angel's office surrounded by all his cronies." 

Buffy took a deep breath. "You said 'No you don't, but thanks for saying it.'" 

Spike frowned. "I would never say that." 

"Well you did." 

"Well I was obviously out of my bloody mind." 

Buffy smiled slightly. "That's what I thought." 

Spike crossed the room, his casual demeanor gone. He looked at her with flashing blue eyes, his shoulders were tense, his face open and intense. "I wanted to call you everyday." 

"I wish…well…maybe it's good that you didn't. I needed some time." 

"Yeah?" 

Buffy nodded. "Right before the battle…things were all messed up. I needed space, time, I needed to think." 

"Me too," Spike admitted. 

"I'm done thinking." 

"Yeah, me too." 

They reached for each other at the same time. Buffy half-rose to meet him, and Spike wrapped his arms around her. They fell to the bed, their lips fused together. Spike didn't think he could ever let her go, ever stop kissing her. He dipped his tongue into her mouth, reacquainted himself with the way she tasted. She kissed him back hungrily, unwilling or unable to take it slow. 

Buffy gripped his shoulders tightly—tight enough to hurt him in fact, but he barely registered the pain. It was nothing. He didn't feel anything but her soft mouth and her soft body and her steady heart beating beneath his chest. He grabbed her shirt and struggled to pull it up, struggled to find her hot skin beneath his fingers. 

She eased his grip on him long enough to push his duster down. He didn't want to stop kissing her, but she needed to breathe and he needed to get that goddamned duster off. He sat up and she gasped for breath, sucking as much as she could into her lungs. Her eyes were sparkling, trained on his face. She didn't look away as he began to undress and she mimicked his moves, pulling her own shirt over her head and unbuttoning her pants. 

When they came together again, it was mouth to mouth, skin to skin. Spike couldn't touch her enough. He ran his hands down her face and neck and breasts and everywhere he could reach. He never broke contact—afraid if he did then it would be over. She moaned beneath him and smoothed her hands over his back. 

Spike thought he'd like to take it slow. Spike thought they should take it slow. Maybe the fevered, desperate groping was wrong or inappropriate. So much time to make up for and so many things to say and all he wanted to do her was kiss her and feel her around him, strong and wild and passionate and _Buffy_. 

She wrapped her legs around him—strong, muscled thighs holding and squeezing him. "Missed you," he said against her skin, tasting her sweat and building passion. "Missed you…sorry…missed you…" 

Buffy turned her head and captured his mouth, catching his apologies with her lips. He didn't need words anyway. He had his body and his hand and his tongue and he told her everything a thousand times. She jerked her hips forward, and he could easily smell her arousal, knew she was ready for him—and he was ready for her. 

There were ghosts surrounding them. Walls between them. Mistakes. Violence. Tears. But she grabbed his hand and folded her fingers in his and he remembered that part. He remembered the way their hands burned and that moment…that moment he remembered now eclipsed the pain. All the pain. 

Buffy still clasped his hand as he thrust into her. He moved into her as quickly and hungrily as he had kissed and touched her before. They both sighed with relief, but other than that they were silent. They couldn't find words or even sounds to express the passion raging in their bodies and the way the world tilted beneath them and the relief and the hope and Spike couldn't believe this was happening because it never happened never would happen and he had her and he knew it because she had him and it was still messy but he knew it knew it in his bones and his blood and could hear it in her body connected connection not breaking apart everything was ok fine would be fine never better and faster and harder and god he missed her so much. 

He collapsed on top of her and they both gasped for breath, both tried to steady themselves. His limbs felt like jelly and she didn't have the strength to move. 

"Love you," she murmured weakly. 

_That's three_. Three more times than he ever expected. Three would be enough for as long as he lived. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck and inhaled deeply. He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around everything. It was so…crazy, wild, fantastical. A miracle. 

"I feel like I'm dreaming," Buffy added, her eyes drooping. 

The fear clutched him then. Was it a dream? It could be a dream. No reason it wasn't a dream. In fact, it should be a dream. Because this was too easy and too insane and maybe he was frying in the California desert and maybe he was…

"It's not a dream," he said, loudly, firmly. 

"No…it's Christmas." 

That was good enough for Spike. He rolled over and pulled her against his body, and allowed himself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

The End.


End file.
